


No Wasted Time

by cobaltsiren



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltsiren/pseuds/cobaltsiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A present for the 2012 FuckYeahQuinnSantana Gift Exchange.</p>
<p>Prompt: Future/post college where they’re at least 22-23. Maybe they meet again randomly, maybe they kept in touch, maybe they live together. Up to you.</p>
<p>Quinn Fabray likes to read when she rides the Metro to and from work in Washington, D.C.  It's the easiest way to avoid interaction with her fellow passengers, unless she happens to be spotted by an old friend... enemy....something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Wasted Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raccoontitties](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raccoontitties/gifts).



_i'll be a thorn in your side, 'til you die  
_ _i'll be a thorn in your side, for always_

_  
_

She doesn't look up from her book when she's on the metro.  It's just easier to survive without interaction with the mass of humanity travelling underground throughout the DC/Maryland/Virginia region.  She's become an expert at understanding the crackling voice of the conductor announcing the stops over the loudspeaker.  She's in between Court House and Clarendon when a tap on her shoulder interrupts her routine. 

"Quinn? Wow, it is you!"

She's face to face with Santana Lopez. More specifically face to waist region, craning her neck up to see Santana standing over her, clinging to the metal pole to keep from falling over as they pull into Clarendon station.

"Hi," she's not sure what else to say.  She hasn't spoken to Santana, or anyone from high school, in over five years.

"I had no idea you lived here.  You kinda fell off the face of the earth. Harvard must have been awesome."

Santana is smiling, and Quinn tries to remember if that smile is the sarcastic bitch one that means her next remark is going to be a stab to the heart.

"It was Yale," Quinn says cautiously.

The smile slips. "Right. Someplace smart."

Quinn glances away from her face and notices "RGETO" in block letters on Santana's t-shirt visible through the vee of her jacket.

"You too I guess.  Georgetown?"

"Yeah, law school.  University of Louisville may not be Ivy League, but I did pretty well on my LSATs."

The obvious false modesty of Santana's grin lets Quinn crack a genuine smile.

"Good for you. I can totally see you as a high-powered prosecuting attorney."

"Actually I'm getting a joint degree, Juris Doctor and Public Interest.  Specialization in LGBT civil rights."

"Wow, you didn't just come out of the closet, you decided to blow it up behind you."

It's out of her mouth before she can think about it. Five years and somehow Santana still manages to bring out her snarky worst. She tries smile like it was a friendly joke instead of their traditional barbed comments.  Santana smiles back and tilts her head. Quinn braces herself.

"How about you? Parlaying your high school experience into advocacy for condoms and tattoo removal?"

"No," Quinn says through gritted teeth, "actually, I'm an advocate for the American Psychological Association, specifically advocating for better education on women's mental health."

"Holy shit! Are you telling me Quinn Fabray finally went into therapy?"

"Yes, and thank God I did."  The crackling loudspeaker announces East Falls Church and Quinn sighs, "Listen Santana, I don't want to get into an argument on a subway and I need to change to the Silver Line here, so it was nice seeing you."

Quinn picks up her purse and stands, awkwardly moving around Santana towards the exit.  She ignores the sigh behind her until Santana grabs her arm.

"Quinn, wait.  Where's your stop?"

"Reston."

"Cool. We should get a drink or something."

Quinn turns and looks Santana in the eye, "Should we?"

"Yeah, we should."

"Okay."

**

They end up at Obi Sushi, drinking sake and gesturing at each other with chopsticks like this is something they always do, adults on a night out.  They talk about college, the city, complain about traffic, their apartments. It’s almost fun until Quinn brings up old friends.

"So, how's Brittany?"

Santana's lips disappear in a tight smile and she turns to her drink. “Last I heard, really enjoying that California surfer lifestyle, her and Sam."

"Oh..."

"Yeah, we officially broke up a year or so after she decided college wasn't for her. She moved to Cali to dance in music videos or whatever."

Santana's eyes are firmly on the table. 

 Quinn takes a quick drink and tries to change the subject, "I think Puck's out there too, pretending his grammar and spelling are good enough for screenwriting,”

“Pretty sure he wrote for the latest Tom Cruise flick actually."

"That says a lot about the state of Hollywood,” Quinn smiles, hoping they're safely past ex-lovers now.

Santana eats a tuna roll, with more wasabi than Quinn could ever handle, and looks at Quinn out of the side of her eyes as she asks, "So, are you seeing anyone now?"

"No," Quinn says, rolling her eyes. "My office is about 80% female and 20% old married men."

"So? You mean you aren't the least bit interested in the ladies?"

"I had my college experimental phase, but no, not generally."

"Too bad," Santana says around another piece of sushi.

"Stop fake flirting with me."

The waiter refills their sakes and Santana smirks as Quinn takes a long drink.

"It really has been a while if you can't even tell when I'm faking."

Quinn makes the mistake of looking at Santana's eyes.  She isn't nearly drunk enough for that kind of look, but she can fix that.

**

They stumble to a cab, and Quinn is forced to cling to Santana's arm to remain upright.  They make it into the back seat and give the driver Quinn's address.  Quinn's head finds Santana's shoulder without her permission.

"Do you believe in fate?" Santana's disembodied voice floats over her.

"No, not at all," Quinn replies, laughing.

"Good, then we can pretend I planned all this by diligently stalking your LinkedIn profile.  You do realize it's more traditional to have a Facebook right?"

"I hate Facebook. Wait, did you stalk me?"

"No, not at all.  I did try to find you on Facebook though.  We should have stayed friends."

"We were friends?"

"Yeah.  I don't let just anyone slap me and get away with it, you know."

"Yeah I guess."

Quinn smiles, the wool of Santana's jacket tickling her nose.

**

Quinn's apartment is pitch black and she stubs her toe on the way to the lamp.

"Ow, fuck!"

"I didn't even know you swore," Santana giggles.

"Who doesn't?"

"Dunno.  It sounds kinda hot when you say it though. 'Fuck.'"

Santana is right behind her now.  Quinn half turns towards her, and she's doing that all-knowing smirk.  It's so reminiscent of high school that Quinn automatically turns on her Cheerios bitch face.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

That smirk never fails to drive her crazy.  Quinn raises her hand, but somehow it winds up tangled in Santana's hair instead of flying across her face.  Santana's instinctive flinch evaporates, and she presses forward, licking her lips just before she kisses Quinn.  There's alcohol and mint on her breath, her hands wrap around Quinn's waist and press into the small of her back.  Quinn inhales sharply as she feels Santana's tongue between her lips, but overall it seems a better use for it than forming words.

Much, much better.

The journey from living room to bedroom is a blur and a trail of clothes.  She's always thought of Santana as cold and hard, but she's the opposite in every way. She drags Quinn down to the mattress, holds her, cradles her, makes her feel warm and wanted.  Their tongues intertwine; their fingers find each other and do the same.  Santana's thigh is between her legs, pressing, warm.  Santana's breath is in her ear, ragged, warm.  Santana's hand trails down her spine, fingertips and nails drawing lines, curving around her ass and leg, coming to rest between Santana's thigh and Quinn, hot.

Quinn opens her eyes to find Santana smiling.

"Best way to shut me up, ever."

**

Her head aches in the morning, and Santana is gone.  It's typical.  She drags herself to the kitchen for water and bread and painkillers.  There's a note on the counter.

_I have an early class. Coffee later? Feels like we'll need it.  xx_

It has a phone number scrawled on the back.  She takes a deep breath and tosses back a couple of ibuprofens.  Eyes closed against the morning sun, she lets herself smile and believe in fate, or at least the occasional instance of good timing.  She programs the number into her phone and texts Santana.

_Coffee_ _sounds wonderful_


End file.
